Railways to the Ends of the Universe

Sometimes I look over my old blog posts to see what sort of imprint I’m actually leaving. Throughout the smorgasbord of posts scattering my thoughts across dozens of different blogs sometimes I come across ones that make me cringe, sometimes they make me facepalm, and others simply make me flush in embarrassment that I could have ever written such a thing. Hesitantly, I share this example from January 2011:

So, here you are, whomever you may be, a single person out of billions reading this blog, reading this blog out of millions of other blogs that are much more decently put together, much more organized, much more thought provoking, much more in touch with the culture around you, much more… a lot of things, so for whatever reason you are here today I must admit something to you that I’m not sure you’ve realized yet, it’s that when you read these words from this very blog you are actually not only reading my words but you are riding a train with a worried old wanderer who makes stops along his way to whatever end in small towns not often visited. These stops represent my wonderings, my trains of thought that are well escaped from the big cities. This way of life, (traveling the railways to the ends of the universe) takes its toll on the body. Sometimes I think I would trade all of these writings, all of my crazy ideas, all of these pages and pages of pure written thought that I’ve accumulated over the past few years, all of my experiences, all of my passions and vivid desires for simply a good night sleep.

And I assure you that it was the lack of sleep (which was prevalent for years) that caused my railways to travel to the ends of the universe, and not LSD.

Sometimes though, certain ones pop out and make me glad that I’ve written as continuously as I have. Those posts help me identify who it is that I am, an inquiry that, for much of my life has remained unanswered. There are strains through my posts that have remained constant which both encourage me and dishearten me the same. The encouragement comes because I realize that I have been blessed beyond what I can explain, and that life is actually really good. Yet, I am dishearten because, other than perhaps slightly better grammar, my posts have remained nearly the same, and I realize that had I not known that I wrote this next passage five years ago I might have thought that I wrote it yesterday.

Sitting here on these rocks, watching the sun go down over the city to my right and the water fall to my left, I think that this really is a different world out here, even just mere miles that separate the congested, confusing city lights from the natural, mostly untainted truths of nature. Even time seems to flow differently out here as opposed to my life in the city.

Time does indeed flow differently out there. It might explain why I feel like I’ve done so little over the years.

And then there are the lines of which I have felt came not of myself, and not especially of angels either, but inspired of the lost ethereal lovers of truth, the wanderers who inhabit the crevasses of our hearts by means of natural gravitation, the fair ghosts of the world, of which in all of said truth I felt I was one for a number of years—an issue I have yet to purge wholly from my thoughts or explain in depth to anyone who’s authority to evaluate my sanity.

Notwithstanding certain exceptions, I’m sure that shortly after one’s soul exits this coarse world and enters into the next life hereafter, one will realize that, in regard to the welfare of his or her own being that it truly is not a matter of religion so much as it is simply an understanding of what it is that is true. April 2011.

Goodnight dear lovers. Do good and sleep well.

Scatterbrained Thoughts

Coming to terms with the idea that I’m going to have to live until I’m one hundred and fifty to make my rough attempt at an education worthwhile I continue to claw my way through the system with little regard for a pervasively natural inclination which selfishly justifies an apathetic world-view that, as Freddie Mercury put so well, “nothing really matters.” One could argue that I am masochistic. Why else would I continue to subject myself to such traumatic pursuits? I’ve accepted that I have problem. Going to school is merely a cry for help.

Sitting in class earlier today momentarily making a valiant effort to pay attention to my teacher, letting his words loosely shape my thoughts as I stared tired-eyed out of the window at the snow drifting off of the capped mountains in the wind whipped sky, and then below toward the students, each rushing to and fro to one place or another, I heard words. Whether audibly from my teacher or from the very nearly audible thoughts so palpably sounding in my mind and resinating throughout my very soul I couldn’t have been sure—it almost couldn’t be distinguished. “Who determines what is good?” it spoke, “how do societies make laws?” it continued, “how do we argue in ultimate terms?” and the ever present but nearly ghost like, goosebumps inducing “what is love?” 

All good questions to be sure—to be sure—one’s that I feel everyone needs to contemplate every now and than. I’ve certainly spent a lot of personal energy pondering upon these things. For me, however, at the time these amalgamated terrestrial and ephemerally echoing questions were resounding throughout my awareness, they seemed to pale in comparison with one even more profound question that was wracking my mind and continuously deepening the furrow in my brow in unequivocal vexation. Why don’t those students step over that damned crack? Not one person over nearly two hours of observing, that I could see, stepped over a large crack in a sidewalk below me. Some almost missed it but either their heel or their toe would just barely touch it and it was almost as if none of those people cared at all whether they broke their momma’s back. Why on earth should that have been? You’d think that some, by random chance, would have missed the crack all together. But no. It was uncanny. I feel like I could have rolled a dozen sixes in a row ten times over before all of those students would have unknowingly all stepped on the same crack one right after the other. And by goodness was it bothering me. What immutable law pervading the fabric of the universe seemed to suspend the statistical likelihood that there should have been a varied distribution of crack-steppers and over-steppers alike? Appealing to my prejudice I’d vehemently assert that I was, indeed, totally suspending my interest in what the teacher was saying remaining engrossed for the duration in the observation of these students. But objectively, I must believe that there were students who did actually step over the crack, but for some reason remained unregistered by what I thought to be studious assiduity of these students on my part. I must have missed some, surely. There had to have been some who stepped over the crack within those hours. But it is almost as astounding that I should have remained utterly oblivious to them? I’m certain the answer to this enigma lies deep within the extensive phenomena suffusing the human psyche, paralleling to some degree the seemingly endless mysteries of the infinite cosmos. But, certainly, I am not prepared to elaborate upon the depths of those mysteries at this time. So, darling, let’s move on.

Changing gears just a tad, I’ll say that I’m actually doing well, though. In school, that is. And, I had the walk. You know, the walk across campus with a teacher where the conversation casually turns from class related stuff to more personal pursuits and interests, me being the one who ended the conversation. That means I’m going to pass the class. For the most part I quite enjoy remaining below the radar without having to reveal much about myself, but than again, when the universe flips the script I swoop in and make my presence known. And when I do, if I do say so myself, my powers are quite on par with those of any you’d see in the latest X-Men flick. That’s right, I am asserting that I am a mutant, wholly equipped with an explosion filled, heartrending origin story!  But, alas, I’d feel bad if I didn’t let you all in on the secret—we are all mutants, courtesy of Paul Voosen, Senior Reporter for The Chronicle of Higher Education. Um. That would be 24, March 2014.

Shifting once again—it seems to be more than a feeling, this sense of needed change that in its rippling reflection soothes the soul, if only it does so in my dreams. Committing to inhibit for no more than only a few more Rants an underlying desire to spend a little more quality time with my thoughts in order to sculpt them into more academically approved, fleshed out essays, I unabashedly continue to write this rhapsody as free as a bird now. But this bird, in endless pursuit to understand the range of his freedom does, indeed, change, albeit slowly. But just enough for the endlessly glistening eyes of streaming eternity to look well upon. Though, merely through it, I ramble on as lost poet, a vagabond and a renegade, bumbling in stutters and repeated sentences with an urgently toned ferryman whom over less glistening but more troubled waters ushers me across. Imagine. It is all so surreal. The words accompanying emotions—symbols accompanying irrevocable decrees. The soul intertwining with the universe as one writes, all for the sake of what? A simple desire. I want to write. That’s it. And with those words I’ll depart, letting my original intent in beginning this fade from view as it is now lost in the limbo of unfulfilled ideas. Surely ultimate truths can be teased out of the fray holding this chaotic mass of sentient atoms together. But, perhaps they enjoy their solitude and at times the company of the few who seek them. 

To goodness without expectations. Let the truth be told in every action you take. And let goodness follow from each step. I only want this dearly because I see all too well the deceit in my own makeup. It is nothing but darkness and suffering. To truth, kindness, goodness, and love. 

The Revenant Movie Review

Sometimes I write things that aren't rants. Sometimes they are writs. And by writs I mean reviews. 

The Revenant: Grab Breath

Leonardo DiCaprio won his first Oscar taking on the role of legendary frontiersman Hugh Glass, in the remarkable film, The Revenant. The movie based in the 1820’s Wyoming Rocky Mountains, in and of itself was beautifully made, making use of all natural lighting and the breathtaking wilderness scenes accompanying Calgary and Alberta, Canada, as well the trip to Argentina during shooting. Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu also picked up an Oscar for a second year in a row for Best Directer. The film came with its woes though, as DiCaprio and Inarritu fought blistering weather, crew defections, and ironically, a lack of snow for needed scenes, but the issues did not in the least tarnish the final product. In fact, the brutal filming conditions most certainly added to its overall authenticity.

Glass, in history is often overshadowed by the larger than life Jim Bridger, who also plays a role in the film as a strapping young fur trapper played by Will Poulter who is portrayed selflessly sacrificing his time and safety to look after the incapacitated Glass after a terrifyingly realistic bear mauling scene. But it is once Glass comes to, that his unprecedented pathway into legendary status unfolds. Although the fact that the heavy driver of the film, the murder of Hawk (Forest Goodluck), Glass’s half-Pawnee son by John Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy) is historically inaccurate, the immenseness of the film and the portrayal of the indomitable human spirit against all odds is tenaciously awe-inspiring making a little creative license largely forgivable. 

The film is truly gritty, hard hitting, and it’s immersive illustration of the dangerously beautiful frontiers life makes the modern day viewer’s eye scarcely wander from the screen over the span of its near three hour long run. Maulings aside, we follow Glass gruelingly clawing his way from beyond the grave, to outmaneuvering the incessant barrage of arrows whizzing past his head at any given moment to hurdling off cliffs, diving into freezing cold rapids, and TaunTaun-ing it up by settling into the hollowed out cavity the warm corpse of his stolen horse provides, all to hunt down and exact revenge on Fitzgerald. And of which, true to life upon finding him, spares him the death he deserves, albeit after an epic and gory slash and hack fight scene. The Natives, though, make an appearance at this point and make short work of Fitzgerald while somberly making their way passed Glass, finally allowing him the breath he needs to begin to make peace with all he’s been through.

Despite attacks on character development the underlying tone of the film whispers from the dust through the masterfully incorporated vision scenes where Glass, in his agony beholds his lost and beautiful Pawnee wife(Grace Dove). She comes to him at his lowest moments, in one scene hovering horizontally over his beleaguered and beaten body while he wept alone and destitute, her dress whipping in the wind through the overcast and mountainous gray light. She says, “As long as you can still grab breath, you fight.”

Dear Lovers

Dear Lovers 

A thousand times I’ve found myself in these nights staring out over the sparkling city. A brisk twenty minute trek and I am stationed at my favorite spot just off the trail upon a rocky overhang that looks out over the valley. Tonight there is a crescent moon. It glows through a dreary haze imitating my soul. 

It always gives me great pause, being able to look down on all those lights. Doubtless, countable, but too many to care to, people, invisible to my eyes are falling in love—and breaking a part. Many are, with streaming tears saying goodbye to someone for the last time. Others are taking their final breath waiting to see what will happen next. And others still are taking their first. All of this and more array themselves before me even though I can’t see them exactly.

I breathe deeply. It’s different up here. On this snowy precipice it’s as if the air actually oxygenates my blood. Down in that valley, its easy to forget what it means to be alive. Often times I feel like an animated corpse brewing from the damning pangs of long irreconcilable heartache. The more I assimilate into that world, the more gravity takes its hold upon me, the more depressed I become wishing to withdraw myself from everyone—the snowcapped hills beckoning me with whispers on the wind reaching down out of those clifftops. All the while, I lean back on dreams I’ve had, dreams of which have been more real to me than many of my waking hours. Yet, those dreams offer me only ephemeral glints of what peace might be in a perspective eternal. They have cemented themselves into the cells of my body, yet, they remain intangible as I grope the cold air in front of me. I can hardly bare it. They are ghosts. Real, but not—my fingertips gently swooshing the colors before my eyes whipping the snowflakes as they fall and mixing in with remembrances brought to my attention by great emotion. Maybe I’m not the living dead, per se, but rather, it’s me that is distinguished only just slightly as the ghost, doomed to behold visions of glory while reaching futility from behind the bars of prison, or my mind.

There is a group of people out there that I failed to mention earlier. The homeless. Of them, many suffer from some sort of mental disorder. I cannot speak the words of which arise in my soul as I look into their eyes, or as they speak with me as I pass by. How easy would it have been for me to be one of them had I not had family and friends about me and to love me? Although I have many places that I can call home, Utah, Iowa, Wisconsin, South Carolina to name a few, I have for years, as one owns and then becomes the feelings welling in his bosom felt homeless. I am a wanderer just the same as I am a wonderer. I do not indulge in this melancholic poetry, nor do I embellish it. This is a burden.

In fact, every day is a battle. It isn’t one where swords clank against the defending steel, nor is it driven by greed or political pressures. It’s sustained by something I am unsure of, a mental fog of war ever present and always encroaching in on the sweetness of serenity. It flees through the brush as a doe from a predator. Just die. Give up. There is no point. The insidious voice repeats. The most latter is prevalent. When I am walking through the hollow halls of depression cutting my feet on the broken windows which look out into the thickest of mist it becomes all too easy to turn inward for understanding, profusely ruminating in profundity on the future of my soul. But before I am immersed in the grayness, thoughts turn to when and where I will by no virtue of my own strength be catapulted above the ranks of mediocrity as my spirit ascends upward in grandiose emotion and heightened sensations fearing nothing as no thing whatsoever could hinder my flight, no endeavor being beyond me. But then in reflection of this seeming useless teetering the excitement peters out as I contemplate it. The lows become less painful and the highs become less productive but not because of some evening out of self, but because a self preserving mechanism is appealed to which is an attempt to reconcile the seemingly irreconcilable. You’d think having this objective understanding of the cycle would help, but rather, it drives that mechanism which is apathy. Feeling better with a foreknowledge that it is merely fleeting causes an underlying voice to quietly whisper up from the voids of hell—imitating the hilltops. It testifies of something that in true reflection makes me weep if it should be so. Feelings are nothing but chemicals, dethroning the eminence of love itself to the ranks of mortality, as it dies along with those who once felt it.

But even as I understand to some degree who I am, I turn to metaphor to counter this devious plot to kill love. The darkness is suffocating. It is corporeal. It is the aura of Death. But even as the realness of darkness can be entertained with metaphor, likewise, it cannot be said that there isn’t a light that blurs the line between the poetic and the actual, as well. There is a light and it is as real as the darkness. It is the consequence of action while darkness remains the product of inaction. The continued refining of mortal bodies within the scope of neurological phenomenon, be some considered ills, play out amongst us as what I can only consider, if we are defining words, is faith in the face of the obviously destructive powers of depression and mental illness. To press forward when you see only darkness is faith. I know this well, and it is why I have advocated so strongly for love in the face of evil. Evil lurks in the shadows, but so do the heartbroken. But how to press forward, how to act in the face of conflicting ideals, keeping love abreast is the question to be asked. What do you do when faced with strong opposition of belief, or even other’s own faith? Who do you stand up for? What guides your decisions?

I will not turn this into a political post. But what I want to bring up is this: Of course we should love others. I don’t think you’ll have much opposition on this stance. But where does love play a part in the decisions that we as a society are constantly divided on, particularly the heavy ones that we see nearly at all times in one form or another in the news and in political warfare? Guns, abortion, border control, mental illness, prison conditions, climate change, gay marriage, marijuana legalization, healthcare, the separation of church and state, police brutally, and many more issues vex the world and our country. And it drives me to the mountains. There seems to be no end to problems, to heartaches, to troubles of grand scales. The deepest trouble of all is this: The attempt to sway opinion with feigned love destroys faith in true love. Yet as truth is nothing other than true, it is love that heals. It is love that changes and exalts those who feel it, find it, and implement it into the days of their lives. It is this truth that wrestles to grow in the minds of men as a rose rising up through the windblown sands of a dune.

Breathe

I’ve been warding off the urge to post another overly poetic rant with an undertone of angsty existential melancholy. I even went up into the mountains to write it. Maybe I’ll post it. Maybe I won’t, but for now, I just want to say that life is good. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression though. I mean, nothing good has happened that caused me to say that. I just mean, objectively, you know, life in and of itself is a good thing. But also, nothing bad has happened to cause me to reflect on the deepness and wonders of life either. Just, that’s it. Life is good. Remember that. Even when you can’t see it. It is. There is always something that lifts the burden out of your chest and lets you breathe. Focus on those things. Love those things. Make those things a part of your life. That’s all.